


Sleep Awake

by bongos_orangejuice



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Teacher Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:42:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25074805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bongos_orangejuice/pseuds/bongos_orangejuice
Summary: Uh oh, Jon is scared of his Gender Juice™ bc of trauma and he needs some hug
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 142





	Sleep Awake

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> -worm stuff/general corruption mumbo jumbo  
> -needle/syringe mention  
> -descriptions of anxiety attack and paranoia  
> -animal death (implied)  
> //Btw teacher Jon in this isn't really important but I just love teacher!Jon so much it's unreal so I just had to sneak it in (it's very subtle). Oh, and the eyepocolypse never happened n Jon & Martin married bc I'm gay and I said so

Jon couldn't pick up the syringe. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he knew that he had to, he just could not pick it up.

He began to shake. His breathing quickened and his eyes began to quiver in their sockets as his vision grew blurry. The palms of his hands turned clammy and his shoulders and jaw tensed, tighter, and tighter.

It had already been—what was it now, 4 years since the Prentiss attack happened? Yet the image of aggregations of worms still sends him back to the paranoid state of mind he had to adapt for keeping himself, and everyone else in the archives, safe. And seeing a bird's corpse with maggots burrowing into it on the street on his way back home from the school earlier that day…. really did not do anything to help that. No matter how much he tried to distract himself after that, his mind always told him that there was a worm, prepared to lunge forward and attack him—in his coffee, in his dinner, in his clothes, and now in the vial of testosterone sitting in front of him.

He couldn't do it. There were no words he could say to himself, no papers to grade, or documentary he could distract himself with—no way to cope with the immense dread he felt at the task at hand.  
He had of course, done said task so many times before but now was different. Now, it was not testosterone anymore. It was not his syringe, it was yet another worm, ready to penetrate through his skin and begin gnawing at his skin, through his flesh. He couldn't trust it. Nor could he trust himself to put it in him, seeing as how his vision had become blurry. What could he do? He began to whimper as he put his back up against the bathroom wall adjacent to the sink, where the syringe lay. He hugged himself as his vision grew blurrier with the tears that began to fill his eyes.

There was a knock at the door, a noise at which Jon jumped, followed by a soft "Jon?" It was Martin, of course. "Jon, are you alright in there? Can I come in?"  
Jon couldn't gather himself to answer properly. He struggled in an attempt to say "no I'm fine", and it just came out as a louder whimper as tears streamed down his face.

Martin opened the door just enough so that he could pop the top half of his head in and take a peak to see what Jon was doing. All that peered through the door was Martin's curly hair and concerned eyes which scoured the room.  
And then, he saw Jon. A sad, sorry mess wearing only short shorts and his binder, tears flooding his face.  
Martin quickly entered the bathroom, closing the small distance between the two of them, taking Jon by the shoulders and tenderly asking, "What's wrong, love? What happened?" as he bent his knees a bit to make his worried eyes level with Jon's.

Jon diverted his eyes in shame, and tried very hard to explain himself through the crying but all that came out of his mouth was "it...th-the syringe...it feels like...there's worms in it—there's worms in a-all of it, I can't...I-I can't do it, I can't…" The words came out strained by Jon's breathlessness, punctuated by sniffling and shaky gasps for air.

Concern knitted it's way into Martin's face. Jon sometimes had breakdowns like this. Breakdowns about something that had reminded him of his oh-so-many marks. It could become crippling at times, anxiety holding Jon back from doing simple tasks that his mind would convince him had something to do with a mark.

Martin understood what Jon was trying to say and simply asked, "Why don't we go over on the couch and I'll do it for you then, hm?" as he held Jon's face in his hands, caressing it and wiping away his tears. Jon took in another shaky breath, leaning into Martin's touch as he whispered, "...yes. A-alright."

With one hand full of the vial, the alcohol swab, the band-aid, and the syringe and the other holding onto Jon's hand, Martin walked out of the bathroom and into the living room. He put the equipment on the small table next to the couch and proceeded to carefully sit Jon down, kneeling on the floor in front of him and placing his hands on Jon's ashy knees as he still shook and cried. 

"You're ok. I won't let anything harm you, alright, darling?" Martin reassured his husband, kissing just above his right knee and slowly stroking Jon's dark skin with his thumbs. "You are safe here, Jon." His shaking and crying started to calm down a little bit as he said that. 

Martin asked, "Are you ready?"  
Jon clenched his fist and jaw, anxiety welling up in his chest, bubbling up in his throat. But he knew he had the bite the bullet, or else this could take all night, and seeing as it was already almost midnight, he did not want that to happen.

"Y-yes, I suppose." He said, the flow of tears slowing down. "As ready as I could be. I-it's not like we've not done this before." He scoffed at himself. Martin had done Jon's shots for him before, when Jon would be too tired or anxious. He trusted him, of course he did, so there should have been no reason for Jon to be scared. And yet, he was.

"Ok," said Martin softly, taking Jon's very clenched fist in his hand and placing a delicate kiss on the knuckles, "Very good. Could, uhm," he took a moment trying to gather his thoughts on how to do this right, how to make Jon as comfortable as possible, "can you please erh, look at the ceiling until I tell you that you can stop?"  
Jon simply nodded and complied, too fatigued to reply. Martin reached over to the table, grabbing the items. He applied the alcohol swab to the side of Jon's thigh, then he grabbed the syringe and extracted the amount of milligrams needed from the vial. He squeezed the skin around that part of his thigh, and inserted the needle into his skin. Then, he pushed down on the syringe.

In response, Jon tensed up completely and held his breath, clenching his fists and jaw so tight it hurt. Well, it was better than the alternative, which was flailing about and screaming about non-existent worms, which is not the best thing to do when you have a needle in you. He felt the feeling of the penetration of the needle and a foreign substance enter his body, and there he was back at the institute, worms burrowing into his skin, crawling, gnawing, squirming deeper and deeper into his flesh. What took barely half a minute seemed to last half an hour in those moments. It was near unbearable.

Martin took the needle out of his thigh, setting it back on the table, then grabbing the band-aid, and placing it on the newly punctured skin, and kissed it to make it feel better (something he always did when he gave Jon his shots). Discarding the paper that held the band-aid before and getting up off the floor, he said, "alright Jon, you can stop now."

Jon just doubled over, shaking and crying much harder than before, whimpering out, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…." over and over again, increasingly more desperate sounding as he kept wailing. Martin came over to sit next to him on the couch, wrapping his arms around Jon's shaking frame, "Jon, what's the matter, love? It's all done…!" he said quietly.

Jon gasped for air as he buried his face in his hands, "no but it's...the worms it feels like there's worms in me now and I can't get them out," he turned to his husband, terrified and grabbing ahold of his hand, "please, please Martin get them out."

"Ssshhhhhh, Jon it's ok, it's ok. There are no worms here," Martin said, stroking the side of Jon's face, "there are no worms in you, or the vial, or the syringe—you're safe. I promise."  
Jon was still crying, scared like hell, "I-I know, I'm...I'm sorry Martin," he said, trying to gather his thoughts and explain himself, "I know I'm being really stupid right now but I can't...let go of the idea that I'm being attacked." He pinched the bridge of his nose and burying his face in his knees.  
"You're not being stupid…" Martin sighed, 

"Alright. Sit up."

"what...?"

"Come on, sit up."  
Jon sat up slowly, posture still hunched over. Martin scooped Jon up in a bridal carry, then proceeded to sit down on the couch, with Jon in his lap. 

"If there were worms in you, or even a chance of that being the case, I would have a corkscrew and would have had to, erm, use it on you but," he cleared his throat, "since that would not happen, I don't have one, nor am I stabbing you!" He said, ending with a shrug.  
Jon giggled quietly and said, "You're right," he burrowed his face into Martin's chest, "thank you for that."  
Martin brushed back Jon's hair away from his forehead and placed a soft kiss there, proceeding to stroke his salt-and-pepper hair as he pulled away. Jon was still crying and shaking, though quietly now, and they both knew no amount of rationalization would really be able to calm him down in this state.  
"How about this, I stay here and make sure you're safe and sound until you feel all better, ok?" Martin whispered.  
"Yes...yes I'd quite like that." Jon said with a small, modest smile.  
Martin continued to stroke Jon's hair, and rubbed circles into his thigh with his thumb, just above the shot.  
Jon shook silently, still taking in gasps of air.  
Martin realized he was still wearing his binder and knew that must have hurt to try to breathe like that in it. "Do you want me to take this off?" he asked, pinching the strap of the binder to indicate what he was talking about.  
Jon nodded in agreement, and lifted his arms up so that Martin could pull it off and over his head. The skin underneath the edges of the fabric was red from being tight, and Martin placed tiny kisses along the indented lines on his shoulder. Jon laughed through the tears at how cute it was.  
Martin kissed his neck, and pulled him into a soft hug. Jon melted into the feeling of it—the warmth, the security, the familiarity. He pressed a sleepy kiss to Martin's lips, and another, and another. He felt safe. And he felt loved.

As Jon's crying finally stopped, he fell asleep in Martin's lap, head resting on his shoulder. Martin studied Jon's cute, sleeping face under the lamplight, and gave his cheek a small kiss. He sighed in relief, and slowly fell asleep, keeping a watchful, loving eye on Jon until his own eyes shut.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!! I might make some actual teacher Jon fics one of these days


End file.
